


Sweet On You

by spnblargh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon verse, Christmas fic, Destiel Advent Calender 2014, Domestic, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sam-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2786570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean prepares for the holidays by excessively baking, and Cas may or may not be home in time for Christmas.</p><p>Destiel Advent Calender Challenge, 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet On You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Destiel Advent Calender, 2014. You can read all of the entries [here!](http://destieladventcalendar.tumblr.com/)

On the first day of December, Sam comes home to cookies in the shape of stars and bells. He's not sure when Dean acquired novelty Christmas cookie cutters, but after the first bite, he can't bring himself to ask. No need to tease the only guy in the house who can actually cook.

Dean watches him chew, nervous. "I know they're kinda corny-looking but, uh, how good is that icing, huh?" 

Sam nods enthusiastically. "It's, what, eighty percent icing sugar?"

"Try a hundred percent." Dean grins.

On the second day, Sam makes a trip to the supermarket for bread and eggs. While he's out, he gets a call from Dean, who recites a list of about thirty different items ranging from milk to raisins to glazed cherries to chocolate buttons. It's the most expensive grocery bill they've racked up in a while.

When Sam gets home, Dean rouses on him for forgetting the eggs. Sam dumps the bags on the floor and heads for the war room, shaking his head. 

On the third day, Sam gets home from the library around dinner time. He'd been promised pasta that's light on meat and heavy on chilli, except that Dean's neglected a proper meal in favour of more cookies. They're cut the same, simple little stars and bells, only this time they taste a little different. Nuttier, maybe.

The icing tastes the same, although Dean's gone to the effort to mix up the colours. The stars are yellow and blue and red and white. The bells are golden with lumpy lines of red around the edges.

"I think I prefer these ones," Sam says eventually.

"Yeah?" Dean beams. "I altered the other recipe. This is all my genius right here," he says, gesturing proudly.

Sam lifts a brow. "Okay, genius. So where's dinner?"

Dean glares at him. "There are leftovers in the fridge, dude. Don't be ungrateful."

On the fourth day, Sam creeps down to the fridge at one in the morning. He'd only had toast for dinner, and his stomach's now achingly empty.

He gobbles up the rest of the cookies. In the morning, he groans his way through some truly epic stomach cramps. Dean is unbearable in his mocking.

On the fifth day, Dean places Christmas-themed napkins in the middle of the dining table. After dinner, he brings out a new batch of cookies. Sam forces himself to only take one; his stomach won't let him hear the end of it, otherwise.

On the sixth day, Sam makes another trip to the library. In the early afternoon he becomes restless, and when Dean texts him for milk, he uses it as an excuse to pack up.

As he's going through checkouts, he spies tinsel hanging innocuously in the stationary aisle. He makes a beeline right for it, exiting the store with enough tinsel to drown a man.

On the seventh day, Sam offers to help Dean with his latest batch of sweets. He's attempting truffles of some kind, the recipe currently loaded up on his phone.

Sam makes an incredible mess maybe five minutes in. The benches and floor are almost entirely coated in sugar. Dean promptly kicks him out, scowling.

On the eighth day, Sam wanders into the kitchen, raising his hands in defence when Dean shoots him a warning glare.

"You've been in here all morning," Sam protests. "I thought I'd try and help, that's all!"

"Out, Sam."

On the ninth day, Sam gets a mysterious text message from Cas.

_Does Dean like cherry pie or apple pie?_

Sam frowns at his phone for a good five minutes. Cas hardly ever texts him, and this is what he sends him?

Eventually, he settles on a response.

_Both._

On the tenth day, Sam gets a call from Cas.

"Sam, I'm on a budget," he says by way of greeting. "I'd rather not threaten innocent cashiers for free pie if I can avoid it."

Sam bites his lip, smothering a laugh. "Go with the cherry, Cas." He pauses. "Homemade if possible."

He can practically hear Cas frowning on the other end of the line. "I don't know how to bake, Sam."

"Why are you getting him pie, anyway? Anniversary gift?" He snorts at his own joke.

"Dean and I share no anniversaries that I am aware of," Cas says matter-of-factly. "Christmas _is_ on the twenty-fifth, is it not? Or has that changed?"

"Yeah, it's the twenty-fifth. Wait, are you getting him cherry pie for Christmas? Dude, Dean'll love you for that."

There's a long pause. "I certainly hope so."

On the eleventh day, Sam waltzes into the kitchen, hanging as far back from Dean and his designated baking area as humanly possible.

"Are you gonna take a break any time soon?" Sam asks.

When Dean turns around, he can see spots of cherry puree dotting Dean's shirt. He's experimenting with black forest cupcakes, putting the cheap food processor he'd bought from Walmart to work. Maybe he should get Dean an apron for Christmas. A great pink frilly one.

"We haven't got a case, so I'm keeping busy." Dean scratches absently at his forearm, pressing cotton into the Mark. "Takes my mind off...you know."

Sam nods, glancing at the floor. "So are we going all out this year?" He looks up. "Like, should I get a tree or something?"

Dean drums his fingers on the counter, thoughtful. "You know what? Yes, that's exactly what you're gonna do. Go get a tree, and get a big star to go on top of it. _Or_ , better yet," Dean grins. "Get an angel."

On the twelfth day, the bunker is decked out in tinsel, red and gold and green. There's a tree set up in a corner of the library, a tiny little angel perched at the top. Sam spends a solid forty minutes setting up solar-powered fairy lights around the front door. Naturally, the sun is blocked out by stormy clouds for the rest of the day. It doesn't rain until later that night.

In the fridge, there's some kind of pudding mixture soaking in virtually an entire bottle of brandy. Every time Sam opens the door, a waft of alcohol hits him so hard his eyes roll into the back of his head.

On the thirteenth day, Sam brings up Cas.

"I think he's planning to spend Christmas with us."

Dean glances up at that. He is, strangely enough, out of the kitchen today. Instead, he's been parked on the couch, alternating between three or four different channels all morning. "Dude, does he even celebrate it? Didn't know that Heaven was all about the holiday spirit. Then again," he adds, contemplative, "It _is_ Jesus' birthday. Whoa, do you think Cas knew _Jesus?"_

Sam just shrugs. "I dunno about that, but I think he wants to celebrate this year, either way."

Silence, and then Dean rolls his eyes. "Since when has he shown up for anything even remotely important?"

On the fourteenth day, Sam hides in his room, ensuring that Dean won't be able to overhear his phone call.

"Cas, listen," Sam says, "You're gonna be here for Christmas, yeah?"

"I will certainly endeavour to," Cas intones gravely.

Sam sighs. "Cas, this is serious. As serious as family holidays go, anyway. You need to be here."

"I―I can't make any promises, Sam."

Sam walks a circle around his room before replying. "This is the first proper Christmas we've had in...well, ever." Sam swallows. "It's important that you're here, Cas. We need you here. _Dean_ needs you here."

There's a heavy sigh. Sam waits, chewing his bottom lip.

"I'll be there," Cas tells him.

On the fifteenth day, Dean's in a good mood. At first, Dean had scoffed when he heard the news about Cas, but then he'd brightened considerably. That's when the obsessive baking started up again.

He's energised. Hands fly across dough, smoothing it out with his rolling pin. Dean loses himself in the rhythm of it all. By the end of the day, the fridge is packed full of cupcakes and reindeer-shaped cookies. Sam bought him new cookie cutters a couple of days ago. Dean won't admit it, but he's grateful for Sam's encouragement.

On the sixteenth day, they both wind up with stomach aches. It is physically impossible for two people to consume the amount of sweets in their fridge.

With Dean's blessing, Sam takes two massive containers of sweets into town, dropping them off at a homeless shelter.

On the seventeenth day, Dean bakes jam drops. Sam just laughs, accepting his brother's obsession for what it is, and continues on with his day. He may have to make another trip into town later.

On the eighteenth day, the Mark must be getting to Dean a little more than usual. He's snappy, irritable. Sam keeps his distance.

"When did you say Cas was coming?" Dean asks, apropos to nothing.

Sam rakes fingers through his hair. It's getting long again, but the last hairdresser he went to botched the cut. He's had trust issues ever since. "Uh, I dunno. He said he'd be here but I'm not sure when."

A stormy expression descends upon Dean's face. "Of course," he says, waving a hand flippantly. "We don't know _when_ , but at some point in the near future, _possibly_ , he'll be here."

"Dean..."

Dean just shakes his head. He stalks off to the kitchen, muttering to himself.

On the nineteenth day, Sam talks gifts.

"What should we even get Cas?"

Dean frowns, but doesn't look up from the newspaper he's currently perusing. "Sam, don't bother. Cas isn't coming."

"Dude, he'll be here," Sam says. "Drop the negativity. Anyway, you know him better than me, so what should we get him?"

"What do you mean, I know him better than you?" Dean asks, finally looking up. Sam gives him a long, hard stare. Dean promptly looks down again. "I dunno, get him something dorky, like reindeer socks."

" _Socks?"_ Sam says in disbelief. "That's the best you can come up with?"

"Hey, don't pin Christmas present duty on me, capiche?" He points a finger at him. "If you don't like that idea, get him something else."

Sam gets him socks.

On the twentieth day, Dean takes a call from Cas. He wanders out of the room, talking quietly.

When he returns, his expression is stony. "He says he might not be able to make it," he explains, his shoulders tense. "I'm gonna go punch something for a while."

Sam really hopes he means the punching bag downstairs, not someone's face.

On the twenty-first day, Dean mopes. He tries to hide it behind that familiar gruff exterior, but Sam knows he's upset.

Sam shuffles around the kitchen, locating cocoa powder, milk and marshmallows. He makes them steaming cups of hot chocolate. Dean takes his mug with a mumbled, "Thanks." He wraps his palms around it, letting the warmth soak into his bones.

On the twenty-second day, Dean gives Sam permission to help him with the Christmas pudding.

"If you screw this up, you're uninvited to Christmas," Dean says, jabbing him in the chest. "I mean that."

Sam nods easily.

They work together, side by side, Sam taking direction from Dean's orders. Dean's pretty bossy most of the time, but he's pretty much insufferable in the kitchen. He berates Sam for his _mixing technique_ , of all things.

Once the pudding's finally come together, they both stand before it, proud. Dean's hands are on his hips, something like a grin on his face for the first time since he'd spoken to Cas.

For the sole purpose of ruining the moment, Dean grabs a fistful of flour and dumps it on Sam's head. At first Sam shrugs, simply dusting the flour off and onto the floor. Then chaos breaks out, and they both wind up white as ghosts.

On the twenty-third day, Sam takes charge of gift-wrapping. Since Dean's been getting into the spirit by baking five hundred different types of sweets, Sam feels like it's perfectly acceptable for him to look up extravagant gift-wrapping techniques without fear of merciless teasing.

He's wrong. He is so, so wrong.

"You did a good job though," Dean admits when Sam's death stared him long enough to make him feel some semblance of guilt. "I mean, look at that bow. That is one fine ass bow."

Then he notices the tags on the gifts, and his good mood drops. "You wrapped Cas' present."

"Well, yeah."

"He said he's not coming," Dean says, crossing his arms. "Why bother?"

"He'll be here," Sam tells him. "He promised me he would."

Dean's about to say something, then thinks better of it. "Whatever," he grumbles, then promptly changes the subject.

On the twenty-fourth day, Sam finds _A Christmas Story_ saved in some obscure folder located in the recesses of his hard drive. He connects his laptop to the TV, then invites Dean to come watch after dinner.

Dean shoves tiny, fruity truffles at him, and even though Sam's stomach is already about ready to burst, he scoffs down as many as he can.

As the movie progresses, Dean starts to get a little misty-eyed. He's been working his way through a bit too much eggnog. Sam's pretty sure that Dean stopped paying attention to the movie twenty minutes ago.

Unintentionally, they stay up until midnight. There's a clock dinging loudly from somewhere in the bunker. _Strike one, strike two..._

"Happy Christmas, Dean," Sam says, popping another truffle into his mouth. He's going to be very sick later.

_(...strike seven, strike eight...)_

"Yeah, you too, Sammy." Dean offers him a smile. He raises his mug. "Merry Christmas."

On December twenty-fifth, Christmas day ―

_(...strike eleven, strike twelve.)_

― there's a knock at the door.

Dean practically bolts out of the armchair, jogging to the front door. Sam follows at a slower pace, a smile tugging its way up his face before he even knows who it is.

But it really can be only one person.

"I'm sorry," Cas is saying, breathless. Something smells heavenly, warm and sweet. Sam peers around Dean's shoulder to see a large, truly magnificent pie in his hands. "It's impossible to find a motel with an oven, as I'm sure you know. I had to commandeer one in a soup kitchen, only the staff caught me, so..." He shrugs helplessly. "They weren't happy about it, so they made me cook several meals in exchange for using their kitchen, and..."

Sam's not sure what kind of face Dean's making, but Cas cuts himself off.

" _Anyway_ , they wouldn't let me leave, but it turned out that I am completely hopeless when it comes to making pie, so they ended up helping _me_ more than I helped them." He pushes the pie towards Dean, who accepts it wordlessly. "This is my...third, fourth attempt? Trust me, this one is definitely a success," he assures. "And―what's the expression?" He squints at Sam. "Merry Christmas?"

"Yeah, Cas," Sam says, smiling. "Merry Christmas."

When Dean stays quiet, Sam elbows him in the ribs. Dean clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. You too, Cas."

The three of them remain frozen in place, Cas staring at Dean with pathetically hopeful eyes. "I'm sorry I'm late," Cas says quietly, trying to catch Dean's gaze.

Next thing he knows, Sam's cradling the weight of the undoubtedly cherry-flavoured pie. Dean wraps his arms around Cas and pulls him in, holding him tight. Surprised, Cas just stands there, allowing himself to be hugged. When Sam meets his gaze, he quirks a brow, encouraging.

Cas returns the hug, eyes slipping closed.

They embrace each other there in the doorway, the cool air wafting in through the open front door. Silvery white fairy lights frame them sweetly.

When it seems like they won't be breaking apart any time soon, Sam turns on his heel, carrying the pie deeper into their home.


End file.
